Gravitation
by The King in White
Summary: The first time Hungary saw Canada, she was struck by how young he was. The first time Canada saw Hungary, he couldn't help but turn his face towards the broad back of Britain and berate himself for noticing how pretty another man's wife was.


**Disclaimer: I don't own Hetalia, and I make no profit from the writing of this fic.**

(AN): DON'T SHOOT ME

Gah, I know a lot of you guys (if you're one of my readers from other fics) have been waiting rather impatiently for either the next chapter of _Dragon of Beauty_ or the next chapter of _Chasing Yesterday_.

…Chasing Yesterday is coming along. I'm just struggling to get back into the groove I was in when I wrote so much in so little time.

Anyway, this one is a request by my dear Hungarian friend, Nesi.

The inspiration of a Can/Hun story comes entirely from her.

* * *

"_Freedom is to the soul as oxygen is to the body. Deprive a person of oxygen, and you kill his body; deprive him of freedom and you kill his spirit." – Hungary_

* * *

The first time Hungary saw Canada, she could not help but be struck by how very _young_ he was.

Clinging to the tails of Britain's coat, the child peered at the figures looming over him with a boyish trepidation that was entirely absent from his remarkably similar looking brother. America followed in his brother's trail, travelling entirely under his own independent will, an uncharacteristic furrow in his brow. The joviality that the young nation was known for vanished.

Standing shoulder to shoulder with Austria, Hungary couldn't help but clench at his hand with a slightly sweaty palm. France limped beside the bespectacled man, seven long years of harsh warfare etched into every stumbled step and every pained grimace.

Britain squared his shoulders, green eyes flaring at the approach of the former enemy combatants.

Smiling faintly, Russia shouldered Spain to the side in order to make room for the newcomers, his boots thumping on the cracked stone floor. America coughed slightly at the small cloud of dust the movement threw up, glaring at Russia with some degree of heat.

Prussia smirked at her at the small group joined the circle, reaching out a taunting hand. Face twisting with annoyance, Austria slapped the nation's hand away with enough force to produce a deafening crack. Squeezing his hand in slight gratitude, Hungary turned a formidable look at the Germanic Nation and mimed the swing of a frying pan. Prussia paled and schooled his features into careful indifference.

The low drone of Britain's voice as he laid out the various conditions of France's surrender passed in one of her ears and out the other. The treaty terms held little interest to her, as she, Russia, Spain, and Austria were only peripherally concerned. She had little desire to even be in the room, and was only present at Austria's insistence that they learn the exact terms and nature of the treaty.

She trusted Austria to tell her anything important about it anyway, and with some contentment the female nation allowed her attention to wander.

A quiet rustle of cloth drew her gaze, and she peered down at the young Canada as the child shifted in place with obvious discomfort. Quirking her lips in amusement, the brunette decided that at least one other was about as concerned with the proceedings as she. Not that the polite young boy would ever allow his sentiments to be known.

America was surprisingly following every word with burning intensity.

Purple eyes tracked up to stare into her green, and Canada tilted his head in curiosity, blinking twice behind thin rectangular glasses.

A shouted protest from France broke the gaze, and both turned to witness Britain snarling wordlessly and lashing out with his fist. France tumbled to the ground from the blow, rolling to his knees and spitting blood into the dirt. Canada cried out in shock, attempting to dart forward before being halted with a forceful grip from America.

The blonde man shakily rose to his feet, wiping the back of his split lip along his hand before France nodded mutinously at the victor. Britain gave a sharp nod and bent at the waist, hissing an order to Canada before grasping the boy's hand and pulling him away from the circle.

America quickly grabbed the child's other hand and tugged him along, the unadulterated confusion on Canada's face melting into desperation. Giving a series of unholy shrieks, the boy attempted in vain to pull back on his captors. Such was his struggle that the nation's spectacles flew from his face, shattering on the floor, followed by the bang of the door slamming shut behind the Anglo trio.

Collapsing to his knees on the dirty stone, France cradled his face in his hand and sobbed.

And branded into Hungary's mind was the last expression on Canada's face. Fear and desperation and loss, marked by the trail of fat tears rolling down the blonde boy's cheeks.

And two broken eyes, burning like so many violet stars.

* * *

The first time Canada saw Hungary, he couldn't help but turn his face towards the broad back of Britain and berate himself for noticing how pretty another man's wife was. The burning in his ears subsided through determined mental effort, and the boy nearly tripped into the back of Britain's knees when the older nation halted abruptly.

Slow, halting steps caught his attention, and the child tracked his gaze across the room to France with horror. The man moved with obvious agony, faded bruises trailing under the collar of his uniform. Canada couldn't help but want to rush over and kiss it all better, since that was what France had always told him would make the aches and pains go away.

The two groups halted, staring at one another in silence. Then Britain spat out a quiet statement that Canada could make little sense of. Immediately, France responded in an equally acidic tone, and the boy tuned the bickering pair out as yet another conversation of 'grown up talk'.

Turning his attention to the tallest man in the room, Canada stared at Russia with a small degree of awe. The man obviously felt the child's attention searing over his skin, because violet eyes turned down to meet his own purple orbs. Grinning slightly, Russia gave the young nation a little wave before tossing his head. The scarf wrapped around the tallest nation's throat whipped about as Russia focused back on the cold British voice.

America tugged on the back of Canada's stiff jacket, unable to completely repress his exuberant nature despite the valiant attempt to do so. Shifting with discomfort, Canada couldn't find it within him to whisper for the other boy to stop.

Feeling attention digging into the crown of his head, Canada turned his face up to meeting curious emeralds.

His mouth went dry.

Purple and green met, clashing before the blonde woman's lips twitched up into a secretive smile.

And the back of his neck grew hot. Canada prayed to whatever holy power there might be that his embarrassment wouldn't show on his face.

France shouted something, and the moment was broken irrevocably.

Britain roared, whipping his hand forward.

It seemed like an eternity as the fist rammed into France's face, blood spraying from his lip as the flesh peeled and the blonde man flew to the ground before Canada's horrified sight.

Rising to his feet, France could only give a nod of despair.

Then Britain was leaning down to whisper into the blonde boy's ear.

"You are never to visit, to speak, to write, to see, to even think of him again."

_What?_

Denial came slowly, creeping up as Britain and America seized his hands and began to pull him away from the circle of nation.

The expression on France's face was a kind of shattering, and Canada knew.

_Things would never be the same again._

Yells of denial and sorrow and plea bubbled up in his throat, and Canada leapt backwards, futilely attempting to release himself from the iron grip of his father and brother. Because even though Britain and France had always disagreed, it had never stopped him from be able to form bonds with the Frenchman.

Dirt flew up at the scrabble of his feet, before the ground flew up from under him when the trio exited into a winding staircase.

The last thing Canada saw before the door slammed shut was not watery blue eyes.

It was green stars that glimmered with pity and compassion.

* * *

It was a very long time before Hungary saw Canada again

Years wheeled by. The important and power of Prussia bled into his brother, and eventually the nation moved into Germany's house. Austria caved beneath her push for a more equal relationship between them, her husband finally offering her a compromise.

The world burned with four years of bloody warfare. Pain wrote itself into her very fibre of being, ripping and tearing apart until her marriage with Austria collapsed at last.

Britain was crowned with victory, riding in on a storm of determination and courage, having put aside his historical enmity with France and the now-independent America to shatter Germany's strength and scatter Austria's might to ash.

Hungary was very tired.

She met the Allies in Trianon.

France and America gliding into the room first, the legendary flamboyance of the first at play despite the obvious pain he was in. The younger nation couldn't contain his swagger at having dethroned several of the old powers of Europe. Heady vigor ran in America's veins, and he knew greatness would come.

Britain; ever serious, trailed in their wake. Furrowing thick gold eyebrows at the brunette female, the blonde folded his arms across his chest. A worn green uniform stretched over his lean frame, patched slightly after years of continuous battle.

When Canada stepped into the room, her heart gave a small seizure in her chest at how very _old_ he had become in so _short_ a time. America's growth was the stuff of legends, despite his age. Quiet Canada was barely of an age to be considered old enough for warfare.

Hungary could feel the question in her bones _of just who was this man that moved with a tired lethality, tan jacket flowing over his form and ruffled white fur crowning his collar?_

She'd heard rumours from the front of him. Germany frequently returned in a towering rage, gritting his teeth at some military defeat or grinning at his success. It was in later years that he would retreat bearing blisters and coughing blood from mustard gas, bruises swelling his face.

Hungary had heard his story of Ypres, one dark night when the blonde man returned with boots full of blood to a concerned Austria.

Did the separation from France at such a young age really engender such viciousness?

Pondering the english Nation in the back of her mind as the leaders of the Allied delegation laid out their demands, Hungary contrasted the crying young boy of yesteryear with the tired young man of today.

Filtering through the orders of partition in her mind, Hungary's fists clenched until the stinging pain of her nails piercing through her flesh penetrated the haze of anger boiling over her thoughts. Part of her was so exceptionally tired of war that it wanted the fighting to end at any cost.

And part of Hungary wanted to fight until the very end before accepting such utter humiliation. Jade fire burned with desire to rage against the dying light until she either blazed freely or burnt out.

But Hungary was acutely aware of old and new scars lacing across her back and stinging under her dark green uniform with remembered pain.

It was with gritted teeth and bile rising in her throat that Hungary signed the Treaty of Trianon.

Romania grinned, slick pleasure and satisfaction.

Violet orbs witnessed the exchange with chill regard.

* * *

It was a very long time before Canada saw Hungary again.

Time flew by for the young nation. Decades of fitful growing pain and fear of being forced away from another surrogate parent might have broken him. Instead, it forged him older than he should have been in order to keep up with his over-friendly and over-passionate brother.

America meant well, usually. It didn't stop Canada from being wary of him.

The scars on his chest throbbed on cold winter nights. Remnants of burns from toxic gas introduced to the battlefield part of his very flesh, never to fade completely. Sometimes he dreamt of choking on mustard gas, lungs filling with boiling flesh and his throat closing shut while hot tears streamed from his eyes. Many nights he woke up screaming and full of black hate for German _honour_.

Canada had swelled with happiness when he had learned that after so long apart, he might see France again. Despite Britain's best efforts, the fluer-de-lis was tattooed inside his very ribcage, forever a part of him. Even if France was lacerated and wounded to near destruction. Because Canada would save him.

So he was glad to go to war with a song of glory in his heart.

The pain and fire and steel disillusioned him very quickly as he spent four years crawling through the mud that he was never sure if it was caused by the rain or by the streaming blood of nations.

The gaudy palace of Versailles clashed horribly with the reality of war when the Allies congregated to witness Germany's humiliation.

Trianon was no better when Hungary was made to kneel.

The moment he stepped into the room, he felt the focus of her gaze like a bullet tearing through his chest. Green lashed at him, full of a touch of surprise and impotent fury.

He knew what his Allies would demand.

And she knew it too.

The white band of untanned skin around her finger left behind by her wedding band caught his attention, and he recalled with a furrowed brow how Austria and Hungary divorced in the ending days of the war.

It struck him as overtly cruel when Britain proposed her dismemberment. And Canada found it bitter on the back of his tongue when France agreed wholeheartedly. His two parents, united at last.

Canada remembered compassion and pity as being deep and green. So he drew the chill of winter up around his heart like a cloak, and shuttered the door to his mercy lest he be tempted to object to the terms the victors laid forth.

When the Treaty was laid down to be signed, Canada said nothing. And with the pen clenched in white-knuckled fists, Hungary slashed her signature into the document hard and deep.

Accusation was entirely absent from her face as Hungary gave him one last glance and fled the room. And Canada knew that she either didn't expect compassion from him or doubted his ability to express it.

Dark green caught his eye, and the blonde nation crossed the room in long strides to swipe up a worn beret. Turning the hat over in his hands, Canada traced his digits over the name stitched into the seams.

_Hungary._

Pushing thin wire frames back, the young man gave a heaving sigh and built fortitude for the inevitable confrontation that would follow. Part of him wanted to retreat wordlessly and avoid a conflict.

But his conscience demanded that he return her property to her.

When he hurried from the room, a quick survey of the surrounding gardens revealed no flashing green or whipping brown mane.

She was gone.

For some strange reason, it was not particularly disconcerting when he slid the beret into the pocket of his jacket, nestled over his heart with the faint scent of spice.

One day he would return it.

Green orbs watched the moment with confusion.

* * *

It was wrong of her to delight in the wicked strength Germany returned to her when he rose against the Treaty of Versailles, bucking the provisions that had made him destitute for years. War was in the air again, and she knew that she would not emerge from it unscathed.

She was right.

Hungary delighted in the brief feel of _rightness_ that shone in her mind when she left Vienne a little more whole than she had been when she'd entered. Trianon lashed like a fundamental injustice dealt as petty vengeance by a victorious Entente.

It was not to last.

The sight of Russia still chilled her. Hungary was unable to get the image of the northern nation bathed in blood like some devil-god of yore as he dealt pain and death from her mind. The scariest part of all was the faint smile that curled his lips throughout the whole ordeal.

The collar around her throat itched, both physically and spiritually. Knees on the floor, Hungary restrained a wince at the pain aching in her kneecaps. She would not give the coldly furious Britain or the disgusted looking America any sort of satisfaction.

Rasping lowly through the blood clogging his throat, Germany pleaded with the Western Allies and stared at Russia with something akin to the fear of a caged animal. Netherlands hissed acidic accusations at the blonde man, silenced only by a soft hand from a weary looking Canada. Wrinkling his nose, the nation nodded before turning his gaze away from the defeated Germany to stare at the bespectacled man with hero worship.

Canada blinked tiredly, and shifted his grip on a bloody and bruised France, supporting the Frenchman silently. Belgium clung to his back, leaning against him. The northerner bore his burden silently, lending his aid to the starved and destitute victims of the Second World War.

America sent his brother a sheepish glance, but followed Canada's and Britain's examples in allowing the tired nations of Europe to survive off his strength.

Tension hung in the air, seething silently and choking many of the nations in the room. Surprisingly, the ire of the Allies was not directed at their former enemies, but rather at their former friends.

Grinning, Russia scratched the back of his head with apparent confusion. The lingering gleam of violence in his face betrayed his lie.

A slow handshake took place between Russia and each of the Western Allies, the threat of violence fading with every gesture. First America, grinning slightly but with obvious reluctance. Then Britain with a glow of calculation. France with flamboyant but obviously fake grace.

Then Canada, with a blank face outside of a faint polite smile.

Hungary took in the sight of the young nation, having grown older still since last she saw him. The tan jacket hung less loosely over him, filled in by a man grown taller and broader. Quiet strength thrummed in his muscles, and behind his glasses the nation cut his gaze across to meet hers.

Heat burned on the back of her neck.

Eyes flashing, Russia clamped his grip down in warning. A happy grin spread across his face, and the tallest nation murmured with amusement "All will be one in Russia, da?" Leather creaked as the other arctic country returned his grip with equal force, and the smile slid away.

Behind glass lens, a violet storm churned.

* * *

When the call came up from Britain for another war, Canada thought of nightmares of suffocation and fire. A part of him dearly did not want to attend the older nation's summon, but rather to remain home and hope the storm would pass.

A smaller part of him thought of viridian glass and the long dark mane of a huntress who would likely be riding against him.

And the largest part of him demanded action in forbearance to his parent. The beat of duty and honour to rise and fight, at least one more time.

Still, even his previous experiences in warfare did little to prepare him for the monstrosity of the Second World War. Tales of atrocity and madness reached him from afar, and he dismissed them. Stories of massacre and torture. Fables of power and cruelty.

Standing tired and victorious before a kneeling Axis, surrounded by nations on the brink of destruction who had begged and pleaded for deliverance from across the ocean, Canada had to swallow past the ruinous horror in his throat and answer the queries of his comrades and enemies.

Narrowing his eyes at a coughing Germany, Canada fought the urge to either give in to the demands of tension and turn his focus to the looming Russia or give in to the demand of something he couldn't yet name and try and find out whether the tan line from Hungary's wedding band had faded after so many years.

The very thought of it made him swallow dryly.

A hissed comment from Netherlands made him furrow his brow in slight annoyance as he nudged the older nation, wordlessly ordering him to stop interrupting and delaying the progress of the meeting. The nation sighed under his breath before turning his focus away from the kneeling Germany to stare at Canada with a peculiar gleam in his eyes. The young nation shifted uncomfortably under the look, tugging at his collar with nervous tension before jostling France into a more stable position hanging from his shoulder as a form of distraction.

Canada wasn't entirely ready to be looked at like some eleventh hour Messiah.

Germany cursed lowly some facet of Russian aggression, and the tall nation grinned with friendliness, rubbing the back of his head in confusion. The movement caught Canada's eye, and his back unconsciously straightened at the quiet threat of further violence that lurked in Russia's face. The tension in the air grew thicker than blood, until America stepped forward with surprising astuteness to offer the older man his hand. Britain and France quickly followed suit, greeting false joviality with false joviality.

No one mentioned the elephant in the room regarding the obviously frightened and captive nations that stood or knelt behind Russia.

Leather gloves curled around leather gloves as the two coldest nations shook hands. Russia's grip was firm, full of iron strength and stubborn will. Setting a polite façade over his face, Canada returned the tall nations force of grip. Steel wrapped in velvet, as it were.

Almost unwillingly, he found his attention drawn to the side to meet Hungary's blank face. Her façade hid all but the faintest hint of her inner turmoil and fear. Canada perceived the huntress's desperation, and found himself inwardly moved.

Russia's hand tightened around his own in warning as a happy smile grew on the tallest nation's face. "All will be one in Russia, da?" His own grip squeezed back, deceptively gentle eyes glittering with sudden fury and threat of violence.

He was young. But he was Canada, and after America and Britain, he was mightiest in the West. He was not someone to easily threaten.

The smile slid off Russia's face, leaving behind an eerily blank expression.

The green beret hung heavy in his breast pocket.

An emerald storm shivered.

* * *

It was 1956.

The world was very dark.

It was snowing.

Hungary's mind melted from topic to topic, disjointed and fragmented as she breathed.

In.

Out.

Dull fire lingered in her ribs, dark green uniform hiding the bruises from Russia's furious violence from the world. She could taste the coppery tang of her own blood in her mouth, and she loathed it. Hungary loathed the taste of her blood the same way she loathed the uniform she wore modelled after Russia's own and the same way as she hated the man responsible for it all.

Her fingers itched to claw his very _eyes_ from his skull.

Limping into the dark hallways of Budapest, the female nation pressed a hand to the wall and shakily followed the familiar twists to her room. Distant thumps reached her ears from across the house, and she knew that Russia lingered in the dark somewhere amid the maze. And if she had more strength, she would hunt him down and destroy him.

Her finger itched for want of a ring, and Hungary couldn't help but reminisce on the older days when she and Austria had been united with strength enough to defend themselves. The loss of being considered a great power was stinging.

Collapsing onto the rusted cot that she called her bed, Hungary pressed her aching face into her pillow before rolling over to stare at the ceiling.

Purple eyes shone in the dark, and a hand slapped over her mouth when she opened it to scream.

Canada loomed over her, holding his finger to his lips in a hushing signal. Nodding in curious assent, she fired off the first thing that came to her mind in a furious whisper when his hand was gone.

"What are you _doing_ here? If Russia finds you, it could be _war_!"

A secretive smile curled over his face, and he winked behind his glasses.

"Just returning something of your's."

Digging his hand into the pocket of his jacket, the blonde nation drew forth a rumpled and worn bundle of cloth. Unraveling it with a jerk, he settled the old green beret over her dark tangled mane with an amused look.

Hungary's fingers ran over the cloth, relearning old stitches with amazement. Her throat closed up as she fought back the tears at receiving the small memento of her days of freedom. The expression on his face grew slightly embarrassed and he averted his gaze.

The scent of northern pines and winter hung in the air, and she wondered just how long he had carried her beret so close to his heart, that his very essence would so cling to it.

Perhaps it was the abuse and loneliness that was inherent in living with Russia that drove her mind strange and fey, but it seemed like the best idea she'd ever had to grab his face, throw his glasses to the side, and drag him down to smash her lips against his in a desperate, bruising kiss.

So she did.

The shocked younger nation hesitated only long enough to process what the older nation had just done before he threaded his hands through her dark curtain of hair and returned her undoubtedly slightly mad affection just as forcefully.

Hungary moaned into his mouth, raking her fingers under his shirt and swallowing his surprised gasp. Her lungs heaved in short breathes, pressing her breasts into his broad chest. Their clothes were torn away, landing in careless heaps on the chill floor before Canada pressed her into the mattress.

Her legs wrapped around his waist, and a short moment later he was in her, moving and tangling the boundaries of what separated them, making her a part of him, that she might experience some measure of his freedom even while in captivity.

Neither counted the time of their frenzy until morning broke through the glass with the first rays of dawn. Then he fled, bearing bruises and tasting his own blood as he escaped Russia's notice.

Hungary marveled at the soothing of her wounds as the bruises faded over the course of the night and the copper taste on her tongue vanished.

It was the first of many times violet shone in the dark.

* * *

It was 1956.

The sickle moon hung over the sky, leering down at the streets below.

It was snowing.

The chill seeped into his very bones, and he shook off the physical chill with little trouble. The coldest night in Budapest did little to shock him, being little more than a slightly colder day than average back home.

The spiritual chill clung to his heart stubbornly, fed by the despair that seemed to hover in the currents of the air like some malevolent force.

His boot slipped slightly on a sheet of ice, and he peered down with annoyance only to freeze at the murderously red sheen that met his gaze.

Blood covered the very streets.

Drawing his hood over his head, the arctic nation slipped into the shadows. Evidently, something had occurred, and if he was not wrong, Russia undoubtedly had a hand in it. The lump in his coat seemed to sag heavier, and Canada quickened his steps as he turned down an alleyway.

Time was working against him.

Shooting quick glances to the side to ensure that he had no watchers, Canada took a deep breath and leapt upward. Wrapping his leather clad fingers over a stone ledge, the blonde heaved himself up with one hand while shoving open a dirty window with the other.

Canada rolled in, dropping to the floor in a crouch before strafing around the room to wait in the darkest corner.

He did not wait long.

The door burst inward, stopped from slamming into the wall with an unconscious twitch of Hungary's arm. A thin trail of blood ran from the corner of her mouth, sparking a momentary rage as the older woman slipped across the floor to throw herself onto the rusted cot.

He leaned over her as she rolled. Green eyes widened in shock as her mouth opened to give a cry of surprise, and he slapped her palm over her lips. He silently shushed her with a motion, to which she slowly nodded. Removing his hand with a rush of relief, Canada's lips twitched at the very first thing she said to him.

"What are you _doing_ here? If Russia finds you, it could be _war_!"

"Just returning something of your's."

The loss of the beret struck him poignantly as he handed over the tattered hat. Canada had carried it with him for many years, despite the impropriety of it. The naked emotion on her face was mortifying, and he turned his face away in an attempt to yield her a measure of privacy until she could regain control of herself.

Canada didn't see the queer expression she gave him.

But he did feel it when she seized his chin and tossed his glasses away before capturing his mouth in her own.

Struggling with the sheer unlikelihood of what was actually happening to him, the young nation tried to conquer the disbelief at the sudden bold move the older nation made. So wildly different. Old and young.

Though he was old in many things.

When her tongue touched his lips, Canada threw belief to the wind before he threw Hungary down on the bed. Her clothes vanished beneath his questing fingers, mirroring the removal of his own by the brunette's trembling hands.

The pale ring of white flesh that had encircled her ring finger was long gone, and that fact pleased the wild beast shivering beneath his skin while he _took_ her and satisfied a hunger that had been growing in him for nigh two hundred years, since the very first day he'd seen her through the eyes of a bashful child.

It made him feel the sinner.

Yet he remained, taking and retaking, shattering some wall that separated her from him until her most painful parts of being grew into him. Canada took her pain, until Hungary heaved in the morn sweaty and _unmarked_.

Then he took off into the West, determined not to be found by Russia until his newest additions had less desire for a suicidal war.

Despite his better judgement, it was only the first of many times green shone in the dark.

* * *

When her lungs took in free air for the first time, Hungary threw her hands to the sky and rejoiced.

The world was a hard place, and the memory of hunger still bothered. But she would have chosen freedom over subservience to Russia at any moment, even knowing the hardship that was to come immediately following her flight from Russia's home.

It was a choice many other nations agreed with.

Chaos had been her most immediate concern. Hungary had left the hegemony of Russia behind drawn thin from her captivity and weak to the advanced militaristic might of some of her neighbours, both to the West and to the East.

But as Russia's house crashed down around him, the overwhelming strength of the West seemed to loom more and more day after day. In the corridors they whispered of America and called him "superpower". She'd scoffed initially, until the day he casually pacified the Balkans with minimal effort on his part.

America had grown so much in her time under Russia that his absent strength could shatter the backs of smaller countries without struggle.

It induced fear.

But it induced hunger as well.

NATO became a flame, and she became a moth, circling closer and closer in her desire to become part of the West. Guaranteed aid and defence against any enemy.

Russia still called for her to return. To return to her home under his roof.

And she would _never_ allow that to happen.

Standing before the assembled West, Hungary pleaded her case. She offered resolve. She offered commitment. Eloquently and passionately, the brunette called on the basic compassion and dignity of the heart.

United in freedom. Part of a greater whole. But never subservient.

And when she fell silent in the end, Hungary bit the inside of her cheek and stared boldly into the faces of her judges.

None made any movement for the longest moment. Neither acceptance nor rejection.

Until Canada rose to his feet, smiling a grin full of hidden meaning before turning to his compatriots and arguing in her favour. Slowly, one by one the others ratified her participation in the military alliance.

The rest of the meeting passed by in a nonsensical blur until it ended and the nations began to depart.

She crossed the room, black dress swinging about her legs until she stood before him and stared up at him.

Canada blinked.

Hungary smiled.

When she took his hand, she couldn't help but marvel that even though there was less strength in his arms than Russia, there was less fear in his hands as well.

And even though their eye colours were the same, there was more kindness in his violet.

* * *

When Russia trembled and fell to his knees, Canada suffered a moment of cognitive dissonance. Part of him was glad that the tallest nation would be weaker for a very long time, and that there was now a possibility of rehabilitating him and healing his broken mind. A smaller, darker part of him remembered bruises and shattered windows and purred with malice and satisfaction.

The world had changed irrevocably since the Second World War. Old enemies became close friends. The hearts of many nations grew kinder, and their minds grew wiser.

Canada; for his part, no longer shot up from the grips of nightmares about mustard gas and bloody mud. He learned to take Germany's hand without rage, and in time came to respect the industrious blonde. The serious man often expressed his regret at having caused two global wars, and Canada began to wonder if some dark spell of insanity had gripped Germany for a time.

The trysts with Hungary had grown more and more infrequent over the years as Russia grew feeble. Canada withdrew as it became obvious that the brunette would no longer need him to come and bear the most ghastly of her wounds. Eventually, their time ended altogether.

It didn't stop him from waking up in the middle of the night after a dream of emerald seas.

When the application from Hungary came in to express her desire to join the West's military alliance, he found himself beyond words. To his luck, people simply assumed that his quiet nature was at play and did not look deeper into the motives of his silence.

Settling his hands in his lap, the bespectacled man steeled himself for the inevitable appearance of the huntress.

But no amount of preparation could stop his heart from seizing when she stepped into the room.

And no amount of preparation could stop her melodious tones she issued as she presented her situation from tangling inside him.

So when she ended her plea for acceptance, it was he who rose and smiled. It was remarkably cathartic for Canada to argue on her behalf. Some settled sense of rightness beaded in his veins. Slowly, the other nations assented her participation in the North Atlantic Treaty Organization.

Then it seemed he blinked, and they were alone. Her legs ate up the distance between them, which was just as well for him.

Canada doubted his ability to move from the spot he seemed rooted in.

The woman turned up to regard him.

Canada blinked.

Hungary smiled.

When she took his hand, the world skittered. And he marveled at how her mouth taste of spice and her hair smelt of the deciduous forest.

If the world ended in a moment, he would've died come full circle.

Because if he had to assign a colour to kindness, he would've picked green in the end.

* * *

_"Whether we live together in confidence and cohesion; with more faith and pride in ourselves and less self-doubt and hesitation; strong in the conviction that our destiny is to unite, not divide; sharing in cooperation, not in separation or in conflict; respecting our past and welcoming our future." – Canada_

* * *

(AN): Well then. That took a day and a bit. Again, I know a lot of you are probably waiting for Chasing Yesterday. It will come. Be patient.

I will explain some things since I doubt everyone will get it. First, every scene was done one from each point of view, in case you didn't notice.

Scene 1 - The end of the Seven Years War in which France lost its North American colonies to Great Britain. Austria-Hungary fought on the side of the French.

Scene 2 – The end of the First World War and the signing of the Treaty of Trianon which divested Hungary of most of its territory and population. A chunk was given to Romania. The British Empire was a signatory.

Scene 3 – The end of the Second World War and the division of Europe between the West and the Soviets. Canada was a signatory.

Scene 4 - Hungary's failed 1956 Revolution for independence. Crushed with Russian military force. Hungarian refugees fled to Canada afterwards, which is what the bruises symbolize as they get transferred.

Scene 5 – Hungary's ascension to NATO. Canada was the first to ratify their participation, as occurs here.

Does this pairing have historical or canonical basis? Nope. Do I care? Nope. This was produced as a special request for my dear friend Nesi.

The Hungarian quote is from Thomas Szasz, Hungarian psychiatrist. The Canadian quote is from Lester Pearson, former Canadian Prime Minister. Obviously, they've been tailored a bit from the originals.

Until next time!


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